Ultimate Moon Knight, Issue 1: All in His Head
by Khonshu's Fist
Summary: When young boy Marc Spector ran away from home, he had no idea how it would effect it would have on his life to come! My version of the origin story of Ultimate Moon Knight. Will lead on into multiple stories to come eventually!


Ultimate Moon Knight

Issue 1– All in his Head

In an empty little park, there sat a little girl. She had bright red hair, making her stand out even more in her oddly dull tinted surroundings. She was clad in a grey school uniform, the only person as far as the eye could see. There was a feeling of unease about her, that couldn't quite be placed.

Suddenly she hopped off the bench and gazed up into the cloudy sky, melancholic. 'It's time for a change,' she whispered, and set off towards the centre of the park.

She eventually stopped on the outskirts of a massive duck pond, dipping her finger just under the surface, as a swimmer would to test the cold. Deciding something, she straightened herself up, and waited.

The clouds slowly parted, revealing the reflection of a full moon on the lake's surface. The girl seemed not to notice any of this, continuing her vigil even when the reflection began to move.

Building up speed as the lake grew shallower, a figure rose from the reflection, leaving the water but instantly dry. He wore a long white hooded cloak, which hid his frame from view. He emerged from the lake and crossed over to the girl. They looked at each other for a long while before the newcomer spoke.

'Show me.'

The girl led him away.

…

Marc Spector sat on the doorstep of his father's synagogue, waiting for him to emerge and give him a good talking to.

Ever since he was young, Steven had been a troublesome child. Raised in a strict Orthodox Jew lifestyle, he had always longed for something more, something from the outside world of fast cars, punks and rock and roll. Caught in between the two ideals, he struck out at his home to try and get to the other side, but never quite made it. Today was one of those days.

Making it worse was his goodie-two-shoes little brother and crappy confidante, Randall Spector. Both of them were from a good Jewish family, both were pals form their earliest years, but their two personalities at this age couldn't have contrasted more. This time, after refusing to help Marc pull off his latest attack on the establishment, Randall actually sold him out to their father. He'd get him for that one!

Thinking over all the times he was forcibly constrained from his desired path by his father's chosen lifestyle, Marc cursed bitterly and set off down the street. He didn't care what his father would say once he discovered he was gone, skull cap left crumpled on the empty stair. He didn't care what Randall would say, probably another stupid lecture on sugar, spice and everything nice. All he cared about was getting away from them all.

Storming around the corner, Marc bumped into a tramp in a long coat, thin but kindly looking. 'Slow down there, my good man,' the stranger said. 'Nearly bowled me over you did!' Ignoring him, the boy hurried on past, too late to turn back now. The man watched him go through round rimmed spectacles, a slight smile playing on his lips.

…

They met again, after a few nights of Marc sleeping rough. The man had introduced himself as Bertrand Crawley, a spearhead of a nearby homeless shelter, where he would like the boy to stay. Anxious, but too tired to think of a better option, Marc followed under the false name of Stephen Grant, the name of a guitarist from his favourite band: 'Khonshu's Fist.'

It was in Crawley's shelter where Spector spent his teenage years, and met friends which would last him his whole life. His father never arriving for him, Marc was eventually adopted by the co-owner of the shelter, Gena Landers, who'd grown very fond of him over the years. He befriended her two sons, the similarly rebellious Raoul and the quiet and calm Ray, and, for a while, 'Steven' had a family he loved for the first time in his life.

As he grew older, Marc moved permanently into the spare room upstairs, and stayed on to help in the shelter full time. It was there he met another volunteer worker, Marlene Alraune, with whom he fell head over heels in love. In contrast to his childhood, Steven now had plans to settle down, to build a life with Marlene. This, unfortunately, was not meant to be.

By the time he'd finally found the nerve to ask Marlene out, she'd gotten a boyfriend, the rich Mayor's son Carson Knowles. Filled with rage at both his delay and Marlene's not waiting for him, 'Marc' hastily signed up and flew out to the Gulf with the keen soldier Raoul, leaving a devastated Gena and Ray, and a confused Marlene behind…

…

Marc hefted his bag onto his shoulder as he crossed the heli pad, refusing to look back. Even if he gave in to such feelings, all he would've seen was empty space. It was late, and Raoul had decided it was best to keep their leaving secret. Less tears that way.

The force generated by the whirling blades whipped up his hair and his new uniform. He was off to a training camp, somewhere to hone his instincts and master military weaponry. Beside him, his half brother grinned in an unnerving earnest, desperate to leave this place and see some action. He was the only one smiling as they stepped into the copter. Everyone had their own reasons for being here; none of them good.

No one spoke as the copter took off. Marc stared at his boots, his mind seemingly stuck on one thing. On her. How she betrayed him. How he failed her. How… NO! He had to stop thinking about her. That was why he was going, wasn't it? To leave all of them and that behind. His dad. Randall. And Marlene most of all. Once he was there, he'd have the life he always used to dream of: a life of action, a life of adventure, a life free of all those who failed him, of those he failed in return.

Sitting up in his chair after an undetermined amount of time, he decided that, from today, Marc Spector was forever no more. From now on, he WAS Stephen Grant, soldier and loner, free of everything that used to hold him back. A new life, with new, stronger people to rely on. So he'd better start getting acquainted.

First he turned to the man opposite him: ginger, skinny and unshaven, he looked like he was as eager to get away from his old life as Steven was. Holding out his hand as the copter began to fly over waters, Grant offered his name. Grinning sheepishly, the man shook his outstretched hand and replied over the noise of the engines: 'Jack Russell.'

…

The training was long and arduous. Steven had never been through anything so gruelling in his life… No wait, that was Spector. Steven's life was just beginning, and, like any new life, he was being shaped by his experiences. He had became a cold, unfeeling killer, while Raoul began to increasingly enjoy the experience of warfare. Each of them had left their old lives behind, and moved on to something far darker.

When they eventually passed with flying colours Spector, Landers and Russell were all deployed as Navy Seals, part of 'Operation: Desert Shield'. They were hardly on the front for a year though, when they, as well as 4 Army recruits and 2 Air Force pilots, were singled out for what the ruling Committee were calling 'Project:- By Night.'

Faced with the choice of either this or a dishonourable discharge, no one refused to participate in the name of their country. After being shipped off to a facility in the barren African 'state', Burunda, the test subjects were experimented on, prodded and poked for months, their fitness and mental dexterity all measured and counter balanced.

Finally, on the 30th August, history was made…

…

Grant woke up on the morning of the 30th with a knot in his stomach. He hadn't feared anything since his rebirth, his conditioning absolute. Until now.

He got up, did his morning exercises and readied himself for what he knew was to come. Not for the first time, his mind drifted to Raoul and Jack, who he hadn't seen in so long. Each recruit was drafted to a different area of the Project, each apparently best fitted to the recruit. Wherever they were, Steven Grant didn't have many friends, and he hoped they were all right.

Eventually, the men in the coats came for him, as they did every day. He followed them silently down another of the blank, white corridors of the facility base, this time passing the exercise room, the computation room and all the usual stops, before arriving at a new door at the end of the corridor.

As it slid open, Grant was greeted by the head scientist, Professor Robert Markham, who smiled genially at him like he always did. 'Hello there, Steve,' he said, sickeningly false. 'And how are you feeling today?' When he got no response, Markham continued: 'This is a big day, you know Steve; a big day for you and especially your country! You, just like another man named Steven 50 years ago, are going to become a living Symbol of our fair nation! Are you ready for that, Steve?' Grant remained silent, in no mood for a chat. He noticed how Markham kept using his name, acting like they were friends. He didn't like that much.

Following the science team's instruction's, Steven lay on a surgical bed and was strapped down. As they put the Oxygen mask over his mouth, Grant questioned his orders for the first time since his rebirth. Why were they doing this? What were they doing? And did the straps have to be so TIGHT?! Trying not to panic, Steven lay quietly as they raised the bed until it was vertical, even resisting the urge to cry out as they began to inject the many chemical's into his specially conditioned body.

All the while, the almost wholly dislikeable Professor Markham offered Steven simpering, fake encouragement. Steven showed him a finger in return.

'An emotional response, good,' Markham said, his kindly face turning into one of cold, bitter interest. 'Keep the adrenaline pumping, Mr Grant. Helps the process along!' This drastic change in character caught Steven off guard and he began to struggle against the belts, when a gunshot sounded in the corridor. Surprised, Steven looked up at the door which slid slowly open.

A little red haired girl stepped into the laboratory. She wore old fashioned clothes, quite dull in contrast with her bright hair, and she seemed to walk with a slight stagger. Running over to her, Markham tried to shepherd the girl away. 'Now, Chloe, this is not for little girls to see,' he explained hurriedly to his daughter. 'Go back to your room at once!'

'But Daddy,' Chloe muttered, her expression hidden in shadow. 'There's a monster in my room...' That's when Grant saw the growing red stain on her dress for the first time, and all hell broke loose.

Markham's scream of terror as his little girl collapsed into his arms, was cut short by more gunshots, followed by explosions and what sounded like the howling of a wolf. Too bewildered by this to continue his struggle, Steven was surprised to find his thoughts drifting to the girl Chloe, and if she was all right. That was very unlike him, the cold hearted soldier looking out for number one. He could feel the serum taking effect now. Could that be it? Something was wrong… It hurt.

'Professor!' one of the staff called out, manning the computer in the corner. 'Explosions are breaking out all over the facility! It looks like… They're coming from the subjects! What do we do Professor Markham? PROFESSOR!' The man just knelt there, cradling his dying daughter in his arms, oblivious to anything else.

Grant turned violently to face the man, realising with grim clarity what he'd just said. 'The explosions are coming from the subjects? Like ME?!' Not answering, the man just shook his head, tumbling over equipment and tables as he fled the room. Seconds later his screaming echoed through the corridors, mixed with maniacal laughter and odd animalistic noises.

Steven Grant was too terrified to notice. An odd buzzing feeling was growing underneath his skin. It had begun. As the world around him crumbled apart, the man who was once known as Marc Spector felt his constrained body convulse, and his last thought before being consumed in a flash of all consuming light was if the little girl named Chloe was alright. Then, he was no more.

…

The old fashioned TV screen before the cloaked man and the red haired girl went to static. Up until now, the two mismatched figures watched intently as the screen told the story of Spector's life. With his apparent demise, the film was cut short.

While the red haired girl grew agitated and slapped the somehow still serviceable television on the side, the man in the cloak remained perfectly still. 'Sorry about this,' the girl growled, embarrassed by this faulty piece of kit. The cloaked man said nothing. The two and the object of their attentions seemed even more out of place in the same park as where he'd emerged, and this had attracted a crowd.

Behind them stood three men, each of a similar build and expression but of drastically different appearance. One wore a business suit, his hair neat and cropped and a red silk scarf draped over his shoulders. His equally serious twin's hair was ruffled; he was unshaven and wore a hooded jacket. The last man was the only one to smile; grinning psychotically as he rhythmically threw his gun into the air and caught it. He wore customised battle armour and goggles, and was the first to speak.

'What's this then?' He laughed through his words, stepping towards the cloaked man. 'Has the girly brought in some back up?' His face suddenly turned serious, his expression only readable by his exposed mouth. 'He don't need back up girly. Tell your pal here to run along.'

'NO!' the girl screamed desperately. 'We need him to get through this! We NEED to get through this!' She gazed pleadingly at the two men behind him, but they seemed too scared to act.

'So,' the armoured man said coldly, catching his revolver in his free hand. 'Look's like I'm gonna have to teach you a lesson, eh girly?' And with that he raised the revolver to the cloaked man's face and fired.

…

Pushing his way out of the rubble with a strength that wasn't his own, the man called Marc Spector rose from his unmarked grave after an undetermined amount of time. Ignoring the other 7 shadowy figures somehow freeing themselves too and fleeing into the nearby forest, yet again accompanied by the howling of wolves, Spector's mind was focused on something completely different: Chloe.

Rummaging with unknown power through the crushing rubble, the man eventually came upon the little girl, lying limp where her father used to be. Reverting to base instincts, Marc picked up the girl and fled from that 'dangerous' place, following his fellow escapee's suits and entering the forest.

Running and running and running, Marc didn't even consider his newfound endurance or speed, but just that he had to get away from that place. Eventually, rational thought returned to him, and he slowed. Stopping finally in a clearing miles away from the facility, Marc fell to his knees and laid Chloe upon the earth in front of him. Taking slow, heaving breaths, Marc was honestly unsure what to feel. It was like he was in many places at once. Was he Marc Spector, good Jewish kid with a rebellious streak? Or was he Stephen Grant: cold, heartless killing-machine? Or… Was he something new?

As he knelt in the clearing, the changed, new man decided as he stared up into the bright, full moon. He wasn't sure if it was the serum talking, but it was time he made a change for the better. Starting with the injured little girl in front of him.

She remained still and silent, not moving since Marc had found her. Leaning in, he checked her condition as Crawley had taught Grant, by gently pulling back her eye lids and examining her pupils.

As he did so, Spector was horrified to find nothing but blackness beneath…

…

After this, the life and times of the man in question began to get somewhat _blurry_…

He was Marc Spector, the man he was before he'd met the military. He'd returned home to find his father dead, his brother missing, and lots of money bequeathed to his interests. Investing generously in big business, he used smarts gleaned from his busy life to slowly start working his way up…

He was Steven Grant, the grizzled and irritable ex-Navy Seal, now driving taxi's for a living. Not for the first or last time, he found himself pausing on his rounds by 'Crawley's Homeless' shelter and glancing, melancholic, in through the windows. Ultimately, he yet again doesn't enter…

He was Paladin, freelance mercenary for hire, currently in the employ of the Roxxon Corporation. As he gunned down yet another trespasser, he chuckled to himself, raising the smoking barrel to his lips and blowing dramatically. This is the life…

He was Something New again, standing in one of Spector's suits on the field where it all began. So caught up in memories, he failed to notice the cause of his past troubles howling at another full moon, before raking his back from behind. Everything slipped into darkness…

…

Before any of them could be sure what was happening, the cloaked figure was over the Paladin's bullets and grasping his throat. Squeezing it tightly, the man leaned into his opponents face and hissed: 'Listen.'

Paladin tried to strike back with a kick, but the cloaked man easily sidestepped it and punched his face HARD, breaking his nose through the padded shielding. Leaning in again, the figure said: 'It's time for a change.'

'Who da hell aw you?' the mercenary stammered, face covered in blood and expression genuinely terrified. Dragging the man to the edge of the park's grey pond, the stranger lifted him above its surface.

'My name is Khonshu,' he said darkly. 'And I demand respect, honour and retribution.' Khonshu's grip weakened, and the now falling Paladin somehow became submerged by the water beneath him, disappearing completely in a second. Walking away, the figure spat bitterly: 'I AM Vengeance.'

Spector and Grant looked worriedly at each other. They both recognised the name: their half-brother Ray always had been an Egyptology nut and liked to share his knowledge with anyone willing (or unwilling) to listen. The god of the moon always sat on his desk, the pride of his collection. What the hell he was doing in their head was anyone's guess, but the two men hadn't left here in a long time, and were anxious for any escape from this mindscape. And, after what happened to Paladin, they really weren't gonna argue.

Stopping before the two, Khonshu said again: 'It's time for a change.'

There was a shocked silence as the little girl hurried to his side. Spector eventually replied: 'I agree. But what would you have us do?'

Beneath his cowl, the mysterious figure smiled before saying: 'Wake up.'

…

Suddenly alert, Marc Spector felt the softness of a cushion on the back of his head, and the peculiar sensation of feeling seeping back into his body. Opening his eyes as far as he was able, he tried to examine his surroundings from his flat viewpoint with little luck. He could tell he was in a hospital, but that was about it.

Just glad to be back in the real world, Spector lay back again. Khonshu had done it, and he could still just feel them, the God, Grant and the girl, somewhere in his head. Any reprieve in reality was nice, as he was sure he'd be back in his mind's eye soon enough.

'Steven?' The voice was like a thunder clap. He never expected this. Spector began to force his body to reactivate, pushing far beyond what it should've been able to manage, just so he could turn and see her face. Sitting by his bedside, Marlene Alraune let a single tear run down her face as she smiled at him. 'Long time no see huh?' Too weak to respond, Marc just smiled gleefully. 'I'm gonna go tell the Doctor you're awake, K?'

As the woman he'd missed so much left his side, Marc rolled back into the same spot he'd been for the last 3 weeks and let out a contented sigh. No more psycho voice, Marlene's back by my side, a new guiding light, promise of adventure… he thought happily.

Things were finally looking up for that scrawny, rebellious son of a Rabbi. It can only get better from here on out...

…

Somewhere in Burunda, a group of government soldier's picked through the ruins of a deserted and largely destroyed facility. They searched for, and eventually ticked off, a series of empty rooms and destroyed apparatus associated with their targets. Their movements were precise and organised: these men knew what they were doing.

Finally, the men regrouped. The commander, Sgt. Charles Dixon, removed his face mask and wiped his brow clean of sweat. Lighting a cigar, he took a long puff as he waited for the last few men to join the group. Finally, he queried: 'So, what've we got?'

'All rooms are clear, sir,' one soldier said resolutely. 'No sign of any remaining candidates. Looks like what's left of 'By-Night' is officially off the radar.'

'Damn,' Dixon muttered, massaging his crown irritably. He'd had a long day. 'All right, let's clear out and await further…' Before he could finish, a shout came from a neighbouring room.

'In here, Sir! One of the chambers is intact!'

The squad hurried in to find a sealed glass cylinder, cloaked by dust and debris, but seemingly un-broken. Dixon approached cautiously, regarding the designation of this part of the Project, written on a small plaque on the cylinder's base: 'BUSHMAN'.

Leaning in, the Sgt. wiped away some of the dust with his free hand as the squad gathered round. Revealed beneath was a bone white face, painted to look like a skull, eyes closed in a deep sleep. Dixon turned to the men, grinning for the first time in a while: 'Boy's look like we just hit the jackpo…!'

In a second, the hand was free of the glass and around his throat. In another, his neck was snapped in two. In a third, before anyone could honestly tell what was going on, the man in the cylinder had burst free, holding a sharp shard of his container as a weapon. He grinned maliciously and licked his razor sharp teeth, as he leapt upon the startled soldiers…

…

The outfit was customised from Paladin's old garb with Marlene's help. The mouth was covered, for added anonymity, and the goggles replaced with lenses, but the rest of the gear was merely re-coloured for its new purpose. He shrugged the hooded cape, white in tribute to his mysterious inspiration, over his shoulders as he looked himself over in the mirror.

Marlene failed to understand the symbolism in his costume, or his weapons; hell, he found it hard to get! But whether it was that time with Ray, or the bright full moon on that night, or anything else in his crazy, mixed up life: Khonshu had given him this. A purpose. And, man that felt good!

He walked over to the windowsill, glancing back at his girlfriend as he stepped out.

Venturing out onto the rooftop, he spotted his first perp. A punk, robbing an innocent. Definitely deserving of vengeance. He'd have to be the one to deliver it. In a few steps, he was over the edge and away, falling through space, lighting up the night's sky like a full moon.

He is Moon Knight.

And he is ALIVE.

…

In a deserted Government facility in the African state or Burunda, a lone man sat and thought. Scattered around him were the bodies of his victims, mutilated to his pleasure.

Some time had passed since was last awake, he knew that. The men's gear was different than his old tech was, more advanced. Funny, how he could remember military protocol to the nth degree, but he could hardly even remember his name…

Raoul, was it? Yes…

He glanced down at the plaque on his old, broken prison.

…Raoul BUSHMAN.

There was another name, too. Not his own, but of an old acquaintance. He must know who he was! That was it then, the man thought, licking the blood of his weapon absent mindedly. He had to find this Steven Grant, find out who he was…

And maybe have a little _fun _along the way…

Bushman's cold, harrowing laughter, echoed around the ruins and out into the quiet Burundan night…

_To Be Continued…_


End file.
